


20 Random Facts About the Things in Draco's Bag (or, 20 Randomly Precious Things)

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of twenty years, Draco must find room to carry the things he loves best.</p><p>1,800 words. R. Infidelity (ie: cheating on Ginny & Astoria). Written for the "Look into the Bag" challenge at hd_birthdaybash, for which fic had to focus on the contents of Harry or Draco's bags. July 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	20 Random Facts About the Things in Draco's Bag (or, 20 Randomly Precious Things)

**Age 20  
**  
1.  
Well, at age twenty, Draco barely had a bag at all. There were schoolbags for students and tool bags for carpenters, he supposed – possibly medical bags for Healers? Who could know – but clearly no dignified wizard regularly carted a bag around like an oversized purse. Blaise did, but he was a ponce and an idiot.

2.  
He had a _pouch_, of course, but that was different. It was small, velvety to the touch, and not nearly as full of Galleons as both he and his father would have liked. He made a show of it, though, whenever he found himself ambling around Diagon Alley with his chin raised. People respected a jangling pouch, he'd found, no matter how empty it secretly was.

3.  
The only other bag of note that Draco carried at age twenty was a small, gilded sack with the letters _E M H_ printed in tiny font across one side. Ernest Malfoy Hemingway? Etta Montague Heckles? Eat My Hot... Draco narrowed his eyes at the damn thing... Prick? He smiled, tapped his quill out of his pocket, and added the extra _P_. He had not yet opened it, but he knew, ever since his father had pressed the bag and its enclosed box into Draco's hands at lunch, that it contained his future wife's engagement ring, courtesy the "best" (read: cheapest) jewellers in Amsterdam. If he didn't open it, Draco decided, and if he spent his time writing vulgar expressions on the bag instead, perhaps he could actually trick his brain into forgetting that not only did he suddenly find himself with his future wife's engagement ring picked out, but with the future wife herself, too.

*

**Age 29  
**  
4.  
When he ran into Potter for the first time in literally years, Draco was carrying a bag full of toys for Scorpius. No, he didn't regularly shop retail for his child's things, _honestly_, but the damn boy wanted a common toy train of all things and wouldn't be dissuaded by promises of shinier, better quality products from Belgium. And so there Draco was, armed with shopping bags in Diagon like a Weasley, when he rounded a corner and Potter nearly sent him sprawling. He shook off the firm grip on his arm and opened his mouth to shout, but when he saw Potter's expression of surprise melt into a small smile of recognition and, possibly, curiosity, he swallowed his words. "Potter," was all he could say, clipping the word and escaping Potter's grasp, but his bloody traitorous body couldn't keep from turning to glance over his shoulder as he strode away.

5.  
He should have known better, and he would kick himself later for that moment of weakness, because what he saw over his shoulder changed everything he thought he knew: Potter was watching him walk off, his lips parted and his hair messed up and his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and Draco could only clench his fingers around the bag of toys and refuse to ask himself why he was having trouble breathing.

6.  
Scorpius loved the damn train. Of course he did. One wheel fell off after a week and the whistle wouldn't work no matter what spells Draco tried on it, but Scorpius barely cared. Watching from across the room, Draco wondered how it was possible to love another human being as much as he loved his son, yet still be so unhappy everywhere else in his life. He bent to pick up the discarded shopping bag that had held the train, folded it in neat squares – pausing every few moments to press it against his chest, releasing the air pockets – and took it back to his room. He added it to a box in his closet where the precious things were kept.

7.  
Inexplicably, he returned to that same corner later and stood there awkwardly, wondering what he was waiting for. He was a fool. An empty paper bag, damp with the grease of fish and chips, skipped down the alley to his left as though dancing with the wind.

8.  
The third time he returned to that same corner, Potter nearly ran into him again. Laughing, Potter raised his hands in surrender and simply murmured, "Sorry, sorry, not funny," until Draco had no choice but to shake his head and hide his smile from the stupid bastard. Potter held up his own bag full of train pieces, stumbling through a story about how since Draco seemed to be in such a hurry to get that thing home to his son the other day, Potter had gone and bought a pair for his own spawn, and was Draco pleased with the mechanics of it, or the way it ran, or the, uh, way that it –

9.  
Potter's lips were just as warm as they looked, his stubble rough against Draco's thumbs and the train forgotten in a pile at their feet.

10.  
It was a mistake, a stupid fucking mistake, but Draco hadn't felt this alive in years. He couldn't get more than two words out of his mouth that weren't insults to Potter's intelligence or upbringing or sexual skill, even, but Potter didn't seem to mind. He fired them right back. The room smelled like fish and the bed creaked and Draco was sure that the crusty old matron was listening from the hall, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't _help it_, he fell apart under Potter's mouth and hands, clutching and groaning and riding it all out until they both collapsed in a pile together, panting.

11.  
When he got home, sore and elated and dripping with guilt, Draco headed up to his room and dug through the box in the closet. When he found the small jewellry bag his father had pressed into his hands all those years ago, empty now but saved for who knew what sentimental damn reason, he held it like it might break. When Astoria's voice called up the stairs after him, he stared at the bag and for a single, quick moment, he thought of Potter's hair between his fingers and Potter's mouth on the small of his back, and he wondered why he wanted it so much and why he should never be allowed to have it again.

12.  
The next day, he retrieved the bag again and threw it in the garbage, determined not to become the first Malfoy heir in a century to actually concern himself with fidelity. Malfoys, he decided, should be allowed to have precious things.

*

**Age 30  
**  
13.  
For his birthday, Potter gave him a bag. Draco glanced up from the bed, pulling the sheet over his torso and propping himself up on one elbow. He made a snide remark and rolled his eyes as Potter grinned and shoved the thing towards him. Potter argued that all respectable pureblood men were carrying them these days, and he was sick of Draco always littering the bureau with coins and scarves and bits of parchment and receipts for expensive toys – that one, Potter insisted, Draco did only to make sure Potter knew that Scorpius lived better than the Potter children; Draco could only smile at that, not refute it – and so now he could put his junk in a bag and sling it over his shoulder like a newspaperman or something. Besides, Potter said, his voice dropping to a mumble, it wasn't as though it was possible to get Draco a gift that actually showed how he felt.

14.  
Draco's chest tightened at that, and so he did the only thing he could think of and made light of it. "Diamonds?" he asked, narrowing his eyes and falling back down to the bed with an exaggerated flourish. "Heart-shaped pendant? Potter-shaped sex toys?" When he opened his eyes again, feeling relaxed and playful and dreading dinner with his parents later, Potter was watching him from a chair at the foot of the bed. He only nodded at the bag and asked Draco to open it.

15.  
The parchment inside was crinkled, having been folded and unfolded several times, from the looks of it, and maybe shoved into one too many bags on its route to Draco's new one. Draco absorbed the words on the page with a strange mix of panic and calm spreading through his body. The bastard hadn't even told Draco this was possible, that this was in the works. He hadn't promised Draco a single thing, and Draco had never asked him to. Draco blinked, raising his head to look at Potter. He rubbed his eyes to give himself a chance to respond, a chance to _think_, and Potter's Wizengamot-stamped divorce decree fluttered to the bed.

16.  
"When you're ready," said Potter quietly, heading for the door and leaving the rest of his thought unsaid. He paused, giving Draco a small smile over his shoulder. "Happy Birthday."

*

**Age 40  
**  
17.  
Draco had got in the habit of checking three things before he went to bed every night. The first was his worn, still-soft pouch that sat quietly on the bureau, filled for the next day's needs. Harry liked to tease him – usually with a playful swat to the arm as he passed from the shower, his dark hair emerging half-dry from his hearty ministrations with the towel – that the world wouldn't end if he actually had to make an unscheduled stop at Gringott's one day to replenish the pouch rather than planning weeks in advance for his daily needs. Harry had never been without money, though, not really. He didn't always understand.

18.  
The second thing was a miniature version of a Weasley clock, apparently, although he'd never seen the original and hated the comparison. Regardless, he kept it hidden in his bag at the foot of the bed, and while Harry was in the shower, Draco would check it each night. It reassured him that Scorpius, as well as Harry's children, were either up to no good or safe from danger, and although he knew it was ridiculous, he couldn't sleep until he looked at it. He never showed it to Harry, but it did not go unnoticed that the bastard had never once in nine years interrupted him while checking it. There wasn't much left about Draco that Harry didn't know, after all.

19.  
The third thing wasn't something he could carry in a bag. He wouldn't have predicted it at twenty or even thirty, but going to sleep and then waking up next to someone powerful and devoted and completely wrong for him in all the right ways was truly a precious thing. But he would never admit _that_ to Harry, either.

20.  
Blaise was still a ponce and an idiot, but Astoria seemed happy enough with him, Scorpius liked him without leaning too far into the realm of unacceptable adoration, and he'd been right about the bag, dammit. The bloody thing _was_ useful.

 

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> The format of this story is inspired by both iulia_linnea's annual "20 Random Facts" fest and the 1sentence community, though it doesn't quite fit with either. The "Look into the Bag" challenge was originally inspired by catsintheattic and reira_21's wonderful fic/art collaboration, _The Things Draco Carries_. They get all the credit for the idea of looking inside Draco's bag. :)


End file.
